


A wrong word spelt

by the_consequences (yuggie_yuggie)



Category: Dimension 20 (Web Series)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Fluff, Multi, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-23
Updated: 2020-10-23
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:16:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27165103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuggie_yuggie/pseuds/the_consequences
Summary: As I watch Dimension 20, my mind just makes everything worse because I imagine Ally isn't there to throw their dice over their shoulder for comedic relief. So here it is, a much more angst-filled version of the show, across all seasons, as I take moments and turn them into narratives.Nothing changes. All canon compliant.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 11





	A wrong word spelt

The Marigold River cuts through Elmville, lazy and slow, and its banks are where many students spend their evenings with their significant others. Down South, it separates downtown from the city centre with a jagged line, patched together by a rickety bridge. A gull flies overhead, crying out for its companions, unable to catch up.

Downtown Elmville stinks of wealth and excess. The staircases are marble, and roads couldn’t be described as roads, but rather boulevards with their never-ending trees and shrubs. Cafes here are far too expensive, with shining metals flaked on anything remotely edible and more.

Only every so slightly out of place, there is a colossal, gilded man o' war. A pirate ship, if you will, that belongs to a privateer. Barely twenty years ago, The Hangman, a gorgeous vessel that...conquered the seven seas was steered up the river, then dragged out of it to become a mansion of sorts. It sits, now, in the centre of an emerald maze of shrubbery and statues and fountains, the crow’s nest watching over the rest of the town with a keen eye. The flag - crossbones, very inconspicuous - floats serenely in the cool September air.

Down in one of the many clearings, sparks fly as swords clash loudly. Loud shouts are heard as well, as far away, pirates of all sorts drag chests of gold up to the home for Sol knows why. 

Hallariel Seacaster - an elven woman who looks barely past the age of twenty but is in fact much more than that - is currently sipping on a goblet of wine. That seems to be the most common state she can be found in, along with napping in her sensory deprivation chamber. She watches the fight with disinterest, lounging on a cushioned deck chair, silk robe barely covering her legs and chest, silvery hair in a messy tussle over her shoulder. “Darling, you look wonderful, are you winning the fight?” She laughs drunkenly - it’s maybe nine in the morning, to note. “Because I don’t...” She trails off as she falls into a stupor, lost in intoxicated thoughts.

“Oh mama,” her son, Fabian, calls, “Herzon is really giving it to me today, but don't worry, I'll best him yet.”

Fabian Aramais Seacaster, son of William ‘Bill’ Seacaster (and don’t you ever forget it), has similarly silver hair except it’s even paler in the sun - white, shaved at the sides, and a large flop gelled to perfection after far too many hours in the bathroom. His skin is a combination of his father’s mocha and his mama’s elven complexion. He is lithe and muscular, and not afraid of showing that off to anyone, clad in nothing but tight pants and an equally tight tank top that looks as if it’s been through a washing-machine mishap.

Roguish, but a fighter.

“Herzon, you let my boy win. Let him win, my sweet boy, sweet boy,” Hallariel croons.

At this, Fabian protests to his fencing instructor, “Herzon, don't you dare take it easy on me, all right, I need to be strong.” He rolls his shoulders back, squaring himself whilst simultaneously flexing his biceps as if to say _come on, fight me._

Herzon bows deeply with his face blank of anything but professionalism. “Of course, I would never take it easy on you,” he promises, “You are a champion; you have the gift of your father.”

“Yes,” Fabian replies, beaming with pride. “I do.”

Out of nowhere, a booming voice - “Did someone mention the man of the house?” It’s the voice of a man, gruff and rough around the edges, who takes charge. It also happens to be tinged heavily with a very discernible accent.

Fabian, if he could, perks up even further. “Oh, papa!”

For someone who calls themselves a privateer, Bill Seacaster looks every bit the archetype of a pirate captain. He wears the tri-corner hat, the eyepatch, the peg leg, the hook, the long jacket, anything you think a pirate should have, he has. Strapped to his side is his sword. It is common knowledge that a large part of his wealth, almost all, was made on the seas. Some call the means heroic, and some call the means...evil, but the former tend to understand that the ends justify the means while the latter are bitter and far less successful.

“My dear darling boy, there he is! The apple of my eye, my pride and joy!”

Fabian preens under the praise, blushing now. “Oh, Papa…”

Bill grabs Fabian harshly, then plants two solid, firm kisses on his cheeks. He then pulls back to look at him, proud as could be. “Now, today is your first day of school, all right,” he says, no-nonsense. “Now, I never had much in the way of book learnin', never was raised in no school of any kind, so, here's what you do on your first day, all right? Now I've asked around. You find the biggest and meanest man there.” 

“Yes, Papa.”

“Go up to him, and you drive your fist hard and strong right into his stomach and send him to his knees!” he shouts, finished with a demonstration of the motion itself for effect.

“Yes, Papa! That's what I'll do, just like you would've done if you ever went to school.” Fabian is grinning from ear to ear, already bouncing backwards and forwards on his feet, imagining the glory he will bring himself and his family if he indeed proved himself at school.

Bill watches on with fatherly pride, guffawing. “That's right, my sweet boy,” he says, mostly for himself. Then he grows serious - “Now, I have a little present for you, if you're so inclined.”

“Oh, Papa…” 

Bill, with perhaps as much excitement in his veins as his own son, reaches into a large duffel bag strapped to his belt and pulls out a bright red, piped with white, letterman jacket for the Aguefort Owlbears. At the stunned look on Fabian’s face, he goes, “Oh my boy, my sweet boy!” Handing it over, he allows Fabian to admire over it as he continues to speak. “Now, technically, you're not on the team yet. They're going to have some informal tryouts today, mainly for people that are comin' back and have played earlier this season. Now, you're a freshman, but I've had a little bit of a...conversation with Coach Daybreak, who is the coach of the Owlbears over there, and I understand he'll be _accommodating_ you in terms of a tryout today.”

None of this seems to deter Fabian, who is enraptured by the jacket and what it means for his status in school. Even without it, he would have likely brushed off the hidden meanings behind that bit of information, never one to worry about such trivial things. Bribery and blackmail are simply tools used by those who have the ability to.

“Oh, fantastic, Papa! Thank you so much, I mean, the tryout is just a simple formality, I mean, we both know that I have the skills to be a champion,” he assures his father.

“Of course, are you-of course! You're my son, you're a direct reflection of me.”

“Yes!”

“You and your glory is the same as my glory.”

“Yes, it is,” Fabian says, without a shadow of a doubt in his heart.

“That’s how we relate to each other!”

“Exactly, Papa!”

Bill leans in but doesn’t lower his volume. “Now, in addition to your skill and your talent and your _raw power_ as a master of combat-” Fabian glows, not literally, under the constant praise “-I've also paid a handsome sum of money to Coach Daybreak, a bribe.”

Fabian deflates slightly, even if he expected this. Saying it aloud...does his father not have confidence in him?

“Ah.”

Bill does not notice and only continues to emphasise his point. “A bribe,” he repeats.

“Well...of course.”

“An illegal bribe.”

Fabian smiles and it’s faker now, less to his eyes. “I would do the same-”

“Of course.”

“I would have done it if you hadn’t.”

Bill laughs again, and claps Fabian on the back. “What do we say is the relationship between luck and talent?”

“Five hundred gold pieces,” Fabian recites happily, spirits bolstered.

“Ah, my sweet boy!” Then, as sudden as ever, Bill turns grim and serious, then declares, “I love you.”

“I love you.”

“I love you.”

“I love you.”

Bill presses a kiss to Fabian’s forehead, gentler than anyone had ever seen him, then looks over to Hallariel, who is blatantly blowing a kiss to Herzan. Bill is clearly at a loss for words, but doesn’t seem overly concerned about the situation. He only watches on with Fabian, then muses to no one in particular, “My darling wife! I'll be dead in the grave and she'll still be alive.”

Fabian has always hated this fact, that he and his mother will have to live on, while his father will die a mortal death in the next few decades or so, barely a blip during an elf’s lifespan. “I know that, Papa,” he whispers.

“You know I’ll die before you, long before,” Bill turns to Fabian and says.

“Yeah.”

“The elven blood in ya.”

“You tell me everyday,” Fabian chokes out. He stays as stiff as possible, hoping to keep the tears at bay.

Bill seems truly lost in thought now, somewhere far off, back on The Hangman, seeing everything the sea and blades can claim when it wishes to. “Time ticks away, grain of sand by grain of sand.”

“Yes, Papa. Yes, of course, of course it does.”

“We cannot live forever. So what must we do to live forever?” Bill sighs into the morning air, then steels himself. His voice grows firm once again, leaving behind the blue. “Write our name on the face of the world with our heroic deeds!” he declares.

Only Fabian grows quieter, disappearing into his mind almost completely. “Yes, yes, of course, Papa. Write my name on the face of the world with heroic deeds, yeah, I will.”

“Good, that's all, that's all it is.”

Fabian didn’t think so, but he needed to go. Now. “Okay, great, thank you.”

As sudden as a switch, Bill is jolly again, or rather his own version of jolly where it’s twisted with something more akin to confidence. “Now get yourself to school!”

“Okay,” Fabian says. He shakes off the bad thoughts. “Thanks, Papa.”

* * *

Religion is an integral part of any community. Where there are people who need answers, there is religion. Elm Valley is a part of town that has taken that and made it perverse, through perfect picket white fences and how everyone looks exactly like the others. It’s so perfect, so carbon copied, that walking through and being offered freshly baked cookies feels like a trap.

Kristen Applebees, is in one word, plain, in more she has wild ginger hair, freckles on pasty skin, and a penchant for tie-dyed shirts from camp. Religious camp. She in fact has been described to be ‘made for camp’ on many occasions. As the chosen of the local church, blessed and filled with the power of Helio himself, Kristen is devout. She believes because to not believe would...well she doesn’t know. She doesn’t have to.

Like every other house in Elm Valley, she lives in a one-story brick home, with a nice garden and porch, a large common area, and a slanted roof. It’s reliable, but reliable is just a nice way to say generic. In fact, it’s how the Applebees describe it. 

In the bright morning sun that streams in through a large window, Kristen Applebees is kneeling in reverence. Her knees burn and chafe and bruise, but she tells herself it’s part of the test - suffering is a meagre trial you have to pass in order to prove your devotion. She is filled with a sense of purpose as she basks in the sunlight, as she kneels as she has done since the sun rose because she kneels for Helio, her patrant and the one who loves her enough to bless her with power and knowledge. She is oblivious to the noises outside, too preoccupied, heart too full.

But she does her mom, Donna, yelling in the distance.

A loud smack, then a sharp cry. 

“I swear to God, Bricker if you don't give your dad back his halberd you're not gonna be able to play when you get home, all right? Now say your prayers, wash your hands and get ready to get to school!” 

Kristen can imagine her mother with her hands on her hips, shirt rolled up her elbows, bangs mussed up as she huffs angrily at the mess. Her brothers are young, and as such like to be mischievous, but they are good kids nonetheless. Kristen tries her best to be a good sister to them.

Then her mother knocks, and says, “Kristen, you up in there? You almost ready to go to school, sweetheart?” The door muffles her voice, but even then Kristen can hear the dissatisfaction in it.

Kristen opens her eyes slowly. She stares down at her clasped hands, tight, sticky with sweat, and wonders how long she’d been there. “Sure am,” she replies robotically, “I'm-I just finished praying.” 

Her door swings open, and her mom walks in. Kristen wouldn’t know; her back is turned so that she can face her altar. “All right, say your prayers to the corn god, Helio, praise be,” Donna lectures as if Kristen hasn’t just finished her prayer and told her so. Kristen doesn’t say anything, because she is a good daughter.

“I am,” she replies without a hint of malice. Though, maybe it exists beneath the surface nonetheless. Then, because her hands start shaking - “I'm almost done. Just another hour.” Then she closes her eyes, and bows once again. She feels the safest when she’s deep in praise, forgetting herself for a moment, and being able to wrap herself in the presence of a higher being who _wants_ her. And isn’t that something?

“All right, okay, we're gonna be pretty late if you were gonna do a whole hour.”

Kristen stiffens. 

“I, okay, I guess I can.” She rises slowly, knees aching but her heart even heavier. “Everything is a form of prayer, so I guess I'll just go. Let's go.”

Donna places a hand to her chest and wipes away a tear. “Oh, sweetheart, I am so glad that you were chosen and Pastor Amelia is so proud of you,” she rambles, then lowers her voice to a hopeful whisper, “Listen, it's not too late for us to send you to Sun Peak to go train with the-”

This is possibly the one thing Kristen will refuse to budge on - Helio forgives her. “No, Mom!” she interrupts. And to her surprise, it feels good to shut her mom up. “I wanna rub shoulders with real people. I wanna go to parties and dump my beer down the sink and refill the beer can with water so no one feels weird around me.” A silent plea is attached to this outburst, and she hopes her eyes convey as much.

“Look, Helio asks us to live a pure life, right?” Kristen nods. “I just, you're gonna be goin' to a school with elves and-”

“Mom.” Helio, in his reverence and wisdom, does not tolerate this...behaviour, which means Kristen will not either. “I think your and dad's stance is racist. You're only for humans who look like you, have you ever looked at all your friends, Mom? Do any of 'em look different?”

“How can I be racist against an elf? I never met one! I never met-I don't even know an elf!”

“Exactly, you've never met one!”

Donna throws her hands in the air. Her lips are pinched as she paces around, unable to stay still or find the correct words. “Okay, okay, so this…wow.”

“You know what? If Helio was here right now, he would pop out of a corn husk, he would pop into a million different pieces of himself, and he would spread those pieces around to all parts of the city. He wouldn't just be hangin' out here.” Kristen fumes, because Helio is good, and to use his name in hatred is beyond insulting; she only hopes Helio can forgive her lack of familial respect.

“I-I-I-I, okay.” Donna sighs, heavy, and turns to weep. “I’m not smart enough to go toe to toe with you, Kristen. I'm a simple woman, and you know, I haven't read the book as close, I'm not chosen, so-”

“You're really smart, Mom, okay?” Kristen can’t win when her mother is being this way. Her knuckles turn white as she clenches her bible for strength. “I love you and I think you're really smart, and I think you're relying on ‘I don't know very much’, and I wanna hear you never say that again.”

The sunlight from the window illuminates Kristen. For a moment, Donna is reminded of just how much power is bestowed upon her daughter. Making her angry would not be wise.

Mac, her father, pokes his head in. “Everything all right in here? We're about to head out, or…?”

“Yeah, we're fine, I'm gonna go meet all my elf friends,” Kristen spits, bitter.

“The hell? You got elf friends already? What the hell happened?”

“I hope so! I hope I don't even have one human friend,” she yells recklessly, then pushes past them with her staff into the hallway. 

Behind her, her mother calls, “All right, well you know everything, you can talk to Helio, so you know, you would know.”

Maybe ten minutes later, they’re all piled into their car. It’s rusty and their elemental is barely functioning, but it’s sturdy enough and large enough to fit them all in - it also happens to look very similar to the cars next door. Bucky, Bricker, and Cork, eight, six, and five respectively, are all strapped in, and less boisterous than before. Their energy dampened the moment they grabbed their school bags.

Cork, the littlest and Kristen’s favourite despite how much she tries to be fair, speaks up in a quiet whisper, “You goin’ to 'Venture School?”

Kristen grins and pokes him in the stomach. “Mhm,” she hums in agreement.

“You gonna fight a dragon?” he asks, eyes wide in wonder.

“I hope so.” Grandeur is not a part of her destiny but the desire for heroism is allowed, as long as she doesn’t become a glutton for praise and attention.

“Really?”

“Mhm.”

“You’re so cool.” Cork’s trust and awe in her temporarily fills her with a dangerous emotion that she quickly shuts off. But then he wipes at his nose wetly, and she worries.

She is already pulling one out of her backpack when she asks, “Do you want a tissue?”

“Huh?” He snorts. “I’m good.”

“You don’t sound too good, buddy.”

Cork relents but doesn’t seem apologetic. “I’ve got a crayon up there.”

Kristen gapes. “What?”

“I got a whole crayon,” he repeats.

“You have a whole crayon in your nose? Here.” She reaches over and pulls it out of his nose. It’s red, covered in phlegm and likely some blood. “Oh Sol, Cork, that must’ve hurt.” She uses some of the awe he bestowed on her to heal him, carefully closing the wounds and lessening the pain. 

Hopefully, that will repent. To give what you have received is good in Helio’s eyes. So what she did was good and everything before can be forgiven.

“What, you heal your brother back there?” Donna yells brutishly.

“Yeah,” Kristen replies. She feels the weight of the world on her shoulders.

Donna puts a hand to her chest. “Well, you know what? I got no worries about you,” she says softly. Then she turns back to the road and that’s that.

* * *

Gorgug doesn’t quite fit into his house. Literally. 

It’s early morning, and in Little Branch, where the small folk live, it means mist. It creeps and winds around roots and grass, dampening the air and chilling you to your core. In the middle of this glade is a tree, larger than the others, decked out with gnomish contraptions and gears.

This is the home to two lovely gnomes, Digby and Wilma Thistlespring, but Gorgug isn’t a gnome and won’t ever be one.

“Well, hey there, sweetie, you're already up,” Wilma says carefully as she peeks into the room.

Gnomes are typically quite small creatures, maybe two, three apples tall. When Digby and Wilma first adopted Gorgug, their family and friends, even neighbours, warned them against it. They happen to be nice folk, but they weren’t stupid, and they understood that even the sweetish races of creatures can turn.

Gorgug tugs off his headphones and pulls his hood up tighter. “Yeah, I got up pretty early,” he murmurs. “I broke my bed again.” His cheeks blush bright green, and for such a large, six foot four half-orc, he seems even smaller than his parents.

“Oh, sweetheart, that's no problem!” Wilma reassures without a missed beat. She will never allow her son to apologise for things he can’t help. “Aww, and on the first day of school….”

Digby takes out his tools and repairs the bed, sneaking in some magic to hasten to process. “Hey, you know what” His voice is warm and full, safe, reliable, and this time it’s a good thing. “Sometimes a thing gets broken, and when you rebuild it, it's stronger for it, you know? A lotta things are like that. You put a sword in a steel forge, you gotta beat the hell outta that thing to get it nice and hard and sharp, you know? Breaking things isn't bad, bud.” 

“I mean, you keep saying that, but I keep breaking things.”

“It's good, bud, it's good that you're breaking things, you know-”

Gorgug sobs, no tears. “I had a weird dream where I got really mad, and then I woke up and my bed was broken.” He feels so confused about what his body wants. He already feels too big for his skin, too big for this house, his parents, his community, unwanted by his biological parents, but now he’s angry and destructive and he doesn’t quite know what to do with it.

“Okay,” Digby says contemplatively.

“So you guys have dreams where you're mad all the time?” he asks, hopeful.

Digby and Wilma share a look.

“Well, sure, sure.” Wilma places a small hand on Gorgug’s knee.

“Really? I was just thinking about-I've never seen you mad.”

Wilma laughs, and it’s sharp and tinkling. Gorgug has always thought his mom could secretly be a fairy. “Well, you didn't see me when your old Pa here dropped a screwdriver on my dang thumb. I was fit to, you know, I said, ‘Hey,’ you know, ‘watch it, buster!’ He really got it.”

Gorgug deflates. He knows what his mom’s trying to do. 

“You were so mad and you said, ‘Hey, watch it, buster’?

“Well...yeah.”

Gorgug takes in a deep breath, but the emotions come roiling out of him. “I feel like my insides are burning-”

“Woah, woah!”

Gorgug stops himself. He would never forgive himself if he hurt his parents. He pushes his hood down, and gives them his most sheepish look. “When I’m mad, and I’m not mad right now,” he says mostly for himself, “I’m not mad right now.”

“Okay, that's, hey, you know what? Everybody gets mad sometimes, and you know, one thing you can think about when you're going to school is ‘Hey, things aren't going my way, I'm getting pretty PO'd. You know what I'm gonna do? I'm gonna sing a song’,” Digby declares happily.

“Sing...a song?”

Wilma darts off to grab her harp, while Digby pulls out his ukulele. They smile hopefully, then at the foot of a bed too small for a boy who thinks he is too large for this world, they sing sweetly, “When you feel a little mad; It's probably because you really feel sad; Just remember your mom and dad; And then you'll start to feel real glad!”

They finish and look at him expectantly.

Think of his mom and dad...Gorgug can do that, he thinks. He can do that. So he tells them - “Think of you guys?”

“That’s right,” Digby says.

“That’s right, bud,” Wilma echoes, “So just sing that song if you start feeling upset.”

Gorgug nods along. He knows, even with his limited expertise, that singing in public to alleviate anxiety is likely not the best solution, but he’s weird enough as it is. He can’t afford to be known as violent too. “Okay, but I think I gotta go.”

They nod and head out, closing the door behind them.

Gorgug slowly gets up. His legs have to fold awkwardly, and even though almost the entirety of the trunk is his room, his neck still has to be bent if he wants to fit. He’s dressed already, has been, because he couldn’t sleep for much more than a couple hours at a time. His bones feel like they’ve been stuffed full of angry butterflies that keep trying to escape; he aching all over and he might need to puke.

So he’s surprised to find his mom by the door - well not that, but what follows - with a tin flower. It’s tin, so obviously metallic, but it looks like it used to be pieces of aluminium that have been hammered down and bent to form petals and leaves.

Gorgug takes it from his mom and holds it. He doesn’t know what else to do with it.

“Now, another thing, that back at Oakshield you had, you know-” she looks around the glade as if something will tell her the right word “-it was a little bit of a hurdle trying to, it was a bit, we had a little bit of a hard time trying to make pals, right?” She sags under the stress, and Gorgug doesn’t like that she worries over him so much. “But making pals is just like making a flower, you know, you think-”

“It’s just like making a flower?” he questions.

“Sure! Everything’s just like something else. You just-”

Spotting Digby pulling out his ukulele once again, Gorgug quickly interrupts, “Please don’t sing another song again.” He enjoys them, really, but he'll be really, really, really late if he stays any longer.

Wilma returns to her flower analogy, refusing to let it go. “Well, with a flower, you think, ‘Hey, what should that thing look like? And how would I make it, and what would I do?’ And you're thoughtful, and then, and then you're real careful with it, and then you put the work in and you put the elbow grease in and you do it with love the whole time.” She beams with pride, one hand over her heart. “And if you just go be yourself, be your great good self with your great big heart, I just know you'll make some friends, bud.”

“Okay, thank you, Mom.” Gorgug looks down at the flower. Something in the way it gleams under the sun fills him with calm. “I'll go to school and I'll try to make a friend today.”

“Maybe give ‘em the flower!”

“I don’t-”

“Maybe give ‘em the flower!” Wilma insists. “You know, that could make a friend.”

Gorgug doesn’t know a lot about the correct way to make friends, but he’s sure this isn’t it. “I'm gonna buy a friend with a flower?”

“Well, it's not buying-a gift isn’t buying, you know? A gift isn't buying something. You know, when you give someone a compliment, is that buying someone something? You give someone a smile? Give someone a smile? You ever do that?”

Gorgug tries to smile for his parents’ sake. It feels strange, not enough emotion and yet too much of the wrong emotions, large tusks and a mouth that always feels like it’s filled with too much _jaw._

Digby peers into his mouth a little out of curiosity. “Wow, yeah, them tusks, them tusks are really comin' in, bud,” he encourages. 

“They’re so big,” Gorgug comments, before giving them one last hug. He’s going to be okay as long as his parents are here to love him. Friends could come later.

* * *

If downtown is extravagant and excessive, then Clearbrook is the epitome of sin - less of spendthrift and more of haughtiness and ‘refinements’.

The Abernants don’t hold much more prestige than any of their neighbours, but they will always pretend that they do all the same. Angwyn Abernant, diplomat of Fallinel, man of the house, sits at the head of the table as invisible servants flit around serving breakfast. His wife and daughters are with him, equally engrossed in whatever happens to be before them.

The air elementals place a perfectly steeped cup of tea before him, but he doesn’t seem to notice. He’s reading his newspaper. The images are barely discernible in the golden light streaming through crystalline windows in the breakfast nook, but he isn’t about to move and sit in the sitting room, or god forbid, the dining hall when it’s not even noon.

To himself, but overly so that is obvious he wants others to listen - “Hoo, ghastly business, that. I'm sure this will come out at our next meeting at the council, it's dreadful, that's really dreadful…”

“I hate it when you do that.”

“What’s that?”

Angwyn Abernant glances up, and sees his gorgeous wife Arianwen preparing her lesson plans, his perfect daughter, the pride and joy of his life, Aelwyn, in her proper Hudol uniform, then finally to...oh. Adaine.

Adaine Abernant, the black sheep of the family, the daughter who _didn’t_ get into Hudol. She has the bearings and looks of the Abernants, but she wears it differently. Eyes too big for her face, cheeks just too round for elven cheekbones, too hunched over to be elegant in any definition.

“You say a thing is dreadful but you don't say what it is,” she says.

Angwyn ponders this for a moment. “Do you want to know?” he asks.

Adaine, through clenched teeth, spits, “I don’t know!” Her uniform - Hudol, because she has no other clothing that fits - is slowly rumpling under her hands, twisting and fidgeting. She refuses to meet his gaze, even as she boldly challenges her father at the breakfast table.

“Adaine, an inquiring mind is one that sees before it the opportunity for knowledge and strives to move forward. Your sister, Aelwyn, for example-” he gestures over “-I trust that when she wants to know something she will ask. That's the mind of a researcher rather than sort of the responsive, more...visceral attitude of a practical caster, you understand.” 

Angwyn means no ill will, only wishing for his daughter to understand her own shortcomings; Adaine likes to disagree - “If you really wanted us to know things, you'd get us papers ourselves, except you sit here and you say, ‘Oh gosh, terrible! Oh drat! What a thing!’ and then I have to ask you, instead of you saying, ‘Oh look, here's some actual practical information that you might want to know’.”

Aelwyn, ever picture perfect with her coiled hair, leans over. Her long, manicured nails tap the side of her cheek as she feigns concern. “I get the paper on my crystal, do you not? I get it on my crystal.” She makes it a point of retrieving her crystal from her pocket to wave it around.

“I'm not allowed a crystal because I failed the entrance exam,” Adaine admits reluctantly.

“That's right. You're not allowed a crystal!” she gasps in mock disbelief. “Well, I'm sure if you kill a hobgoblin maybe you'll...What are the sort of things they do at Aguefort? I'm not sure.” She waits for an answer and when she doesn’t get one, she repeats herself - “It's an honest question. Do you kill hobgoblins at this-”

Aelwyn blanches and hurls all over the table. She slumps, face green, clutching her stomach.

“Oh dear,” Adaine says, fingers still twitching as the remnants of the spell fades. “I mean, I think that maybe my sister is too sick to go to school today-”

Aelwyn shoots her the dirtiest of looks. Of course their parents happen to not catch it either.

Angwyn snaps his fingers once to get their attention. “Now, now, children. No offensive spell casting at the nook. That's going to take a whole Prestidigitation to clean up. Arianwen, do you want to do that?”

“Very well.” Arianwen nods and sweeps away the mess with some magic. As she is doing so, she speaks to Adaine but never quite looks at her, “Adaine, I don't understand why you and your sister can't simply get along?”

“Why don't you ask her? Why do you always ask me?

Arianwen, blank, says, “Well, I don't know.” She smacks her lips. For a moment, something flashes across her face but she seems to force it away. “I don't choose to examine that. I'm rather busy, I'm trying to get this curriculum today.”

“Of course, you’re rather busy for me,” Adaine grumbles. She crosses her arms and turns away.

Ignoring that very pointed statement, Arianwen instead turns to her husband. “Dear, do tell me what you see in the news.”

“Well, the Elven Oracle has died in a shipwreck. Very dreadful business.” Angwyn frowns down at his paper. “On her way from Fallinel to Bastion City...looks like her ship, the Cerulean just went down. Dreadful affair. Ought to be dealing with that. I'm sure the archmagi will have no end of talking about what's to be done. Terrible.” It’s offputting how he seems more concerned about the administrative cleanup than the incident itself.

“She can't have been that good an oracle if she didn't see the storm coming.”

“Adaine!” Arianwen gasps. 

“What! Why?”

Aelwyn pouts and tsks. “Now, really, Adaine, that's much too much.” She looks down at her uniform, which has been cleared of the vomit but not of all of the smell. Their mother has never been the best practical caster. “Oh God, this stinks.”

“I’m just saying, “Adaine defends but doesn’t elaborate.

As breakfast concludes, Angwyn gives a very chaste kiss to the two of them, then rushes back upstairs. Adaine finds that strange but doesn’t care enough to delve into it. Instead, she turns to her mother expectantly. Arianwen is still too absorbed in her crystal to notice. She murmurs, “I trust that you girls will see yourselves...Aelwyn, if you'd like to take the car you can do that, and Adaine, I understand that there's a bus that goes to Aguefort?”

Adaine is disappointed but not surprised. “I mean, other people's parents might have found that out for them.”

“Well, I think this is a very wonderful time for you to apply some of your divination casting, perhaps gaze into a crystal ball, see if the bus is coming to a certain place. That's sort of the thing they value there, isn't it?”

A pause.

“Very well, I shall find my own way to school.”

“That’s my good girl.”

Adaine tries not to let the praise wash over her; it does so anyway.

Angwyn rushes over to them as much as his dignity will allow. “Oh, Adaine, before you go, I have something for you.” Adaine tries, again, to not let this affect her. If her parents wouldn’t get her normal clothing, why would they give her a gift? Angwyn lifts a large orb. “This is an arcane focus that an old friend of mine, a warcaster from the military in Fallinel employed for his spellcasting. I've had no use for an arcane focus, but I understand you'll be spellcasting under adverse conditions, so perhaps it would be of some use to you.”

“Thank you, father,” she says sceptically.

He hands it over gingerly. “Oh, you're very welcome. Here you are.”

“It’s very-it’s very...big.” It’s around the size of a bowling ball if anything, clunky, heavy, and though it fits into the crook of her elbow it keeps slipping over because Hudol uniforms are pure silk. 

“What’s that?”

Adaine sighs and corrects herself, “Thank you.”

“Why would it be impractical to fight with a two-foot diameter orb?” Angwyn, as a wizard of theory and not practicality, is genuinely confused. “Wouldn't a large orb-it helps you focus the spell energy. I'm trying, Adaine, I really do try my best. I don't know what to tell you, Adaine, this is a touching gift from a friend of mine. You don't like it, you can give it back, that's fine.”

Adaine pulls it to her chest protectively. “No, I, thank you, thank you, Father. I'll put it in my backpack. I guess.”

“I don’t think it’ll fit, but do try your best.”

“Then I will, I'll carry it in my hands to school on my first day of school. I'm sure it will make a great impression with these new people.”

Angwyn ruffles her hair, then heads off to join Arianwen at their car. Adaine starts walking over to where she presumes the bus stop is but finds that Aelwyn is following right behind her.

Aelwyn drops her good girl act once they are out of earshot. “That was a mean trick with the vomit and all that. I don't ever cast spells at you.”

“Yes you do, all the time.”

“Well, mine are always funnier, you know, they have an ironic sort of twist.”

Adaine clenches the edge of her jacket tighter, but she can’t help it. From between her fingers, she summons a flicker of magic and aims it right at Aelwyn. She smiles, triumphant, but then realises with horror that her own spell seizes herself. Aelwyn, that bitch, turned her own spell against her!

“See, for example, I just said that my spells were funny, and I've turned your laughter spell back on you, which is both ironic and funny, which are the two things that I said my spells are like.” Aelwyn leans against her car, which they have arrived at, flicking her hair behind her shoulder. “And I didn't even have to use a spell slot, isn't that something-”

“I'm going to learn so many spells-” chuckle “-and screw you, this is my only game-” chuckle “-in going to this school, to find a group-” chuckle, louder “-of people to destroy your fucking life.”

“I'm sure you will. You're going to join one of those little arcane secret societies, go voodoo-”

Adaine rears back and punches her right in the throat.

Or tries to, at least.

Adaine misses terribly; Aelwyn sighs. “That sort of pure brute physical violence, I'm sure that'll earn you all sorts of credit at this school for brawling, that's lovely. Well done,” she drawls. Then she softens in a rare act of...decency? “Could I, before you injure yourself by trying to attack me, could I just be very clear about something? Look-I-it's awful that you got kicked out of Hudol. It's awful, it doesn't reflect well on our family, but that's not even the reason-”

Adaine swings her other fist this time, which also misses horribly. She barely skims Aelwyn’s cheek. 

Aelwyn steps forward. “Really, stop! What's to gain at this point by throwing punches?”

“The gain is me hitting you in the face.”

“I’m trying to help!”

“No, you’re trying to help yourself,” Adaine insists.

“You know, look, all right, and just let me do, I'm trying to do a nice older sister thing for once. Can I do it, can I do that?”

Adaine clenches her jaw and narrows her eyes. “Can you?”

“Good grief, all right. Look, Aguefort doesn't work like Hudol, all right, so all the things about grades and tests and practicals and exams and all that, that's all out, it's a nonsense place. It's all topsy turvy there, all right?” Aelwyn toys with a small flicker of flame between her fingers. “They look differently on the sort of things that they value there, so the things that really really work for that academy are, sort of, things that would be insane to do at Hudol. I heard that one of the best ways to get into an arcane society was to steal a book from the restricted section on your first day, that that's something that they look at as, I don't know, some kind of adventurer's initiative or it shows, I don't know, gumption?”

“I don't want to take any more advice from you, 'cause you probably couldn't even get into Aguefort. Just because you're good at Hudol doesn't mean-”

“ _I_ couldn’t get into Aguefort?”

“-that you'd be good at Aguefort.”

“I could get into Aguefort.”

“You'd be terrible at Aguefort.”

Aelwyn gets up in Adaine’s face. She towers over her, even in flats. “I'd turn that whole school around, brick by brick. I'd lift it up in the air-”

“You’re too scared to try,” Adaine spits.

“ _I_ am proper and well-behaved and well-mannered.”

Childishly, Adaine mocks her. “Meh, meh, meh, meh.”

Aelwyn takes a step back and begins to walk away. “I don't care to engage in this anymore.”

“Meh, meh, meh, meh, meh,” she continues.

“All right, fine, go on your first day, get partnered up with some sort of barbarian, go out into the wilds and get killed on your first adventure, see what I care?” Aelwyn presses a button her keys and the door to her car - it’s a suicide door too, Sol, her parents are so biased - swings open. She climbs in. 

And because she doesn’t have a good comeback - “Good, I shall.”

* * *

Every town needs ‘a bad part of town’. Ballaster fits the bill. It’s run-down, seedy, with apartments and dark alleyways, dumpsters with vagrants that can and will stab you with a shiv for money. Perhaps to make up for the fact, Strongtower Luxury Apartments has made it a point to spell out ‘Luxury’ is cursive and luminescent arcano-tech - except...it’s flickering, so the point is moot when the word is barely even visible. Most apartments here are overpriced, waterlogged, and in desperate need of a fresh coat of paint. But for many, it’s the only thing they can afford.

It’s early now, earlier than the sun, and while there are windows they don’t allow for a lot of light. 

Riz Gukgak, a private investigator who - at the moment - doesn’t have a license, is up. He’s always up. He has a mug of coffee in hand and is trying his best to formulate a route for his investigation. However, his board is sparse, with only five pictures of the missing girls and a newspaper cutout of the Aguefort Adventuring Academy. The red yarn is more prominent than clues.

The front door swings open after a kick or two - it’s been jammed since forever - and Sklonda, his mom, walks in. She just got off from work so her holster is strapped to her arm, no arquebus. “Oh, Riz, sweetie, are you, you're up? What are you doin'?”

“I kind of-I got _some_ sleep. I slept for four hours, we said four hours was the minimum.”

“Four hours was the minimum,” she echoes.

“I got four hours of sleep,” he confirms. 

“Okay-”

“And I got up a couple times to work on the board, but for the most part, four hours of sleep.”

Sklonda pauses. She first hangs her jacket up on the coat rack and rucks up her sleeves. It’s an ongoing argument at this point and everything that has to be said has already been said. “Sweetie, you know that it's not great that you're doing this, right?”

“Well-” Riz turns to gesture at his cork board but decides against it “-they missing, Mom.”

Sklonda catches something in the corner of her eye; she’s perceptive, has to be. “Why does this say licensed private investigator?” she asks cautiously, but she thinks she already knows the answer. This brings up all of her insecurities about raising Riz alone and how much time she spends away from home, her irregular shift hours-

“Well, it says ‘un-’. It's little, but it's legal.”

Sklonda finds that she has been staring at the scrawled business card for some time now. “That looks like a smudge, oh, sweetie, that's, that's really skirting the line with a lie.”

Riz grins brightly. “But overall, legal.”

“I, look, sweetheart. You’ve gotta lotta gumption, but we have detectives that are working-” she stops herself “-actually we have one detective working this case, but-”

“And I can be your man on the inside!” Riz declares happily.

“Man on the inside?”

“Yeah!” He runs over to his board and jabs a finger at the newspaper cutout right in the middle. He doesn’t have to; it’s the only thing there. “Yeah, that Ague-the school, right? That's where the girls all went to - the school.” He’s slurring now, too excited, eyes starting to tinge yellow.

“Yes, they all went to Aguefort.”

“And that’s the clue I have.”

Sklonda doesn’t know quite how to break it to her sweet, sweet boy that it’s the _one_ and only clue he has, which isn’t very helpful. “Okay...you could throw a couple more clues on there,” she tries. “That's a probable thing, we could, you know-” “Just read a newspaper?” “-yeah, we'll just read a newspaper, the dates, right, what kind of circumstances, last seen, last person seen.”

Riz is furiously scribbling this all down on a yellowing notepad. His eyes are really starting to go yellow now, feral no, but concerning yes. “That’s why it’s good to have you around, Mom.”

To herself - “Why am I encouraging this? Don’t do this.” To Riz - “Oh god, okay, you've eaten? Are you hungry, want something to eat?” She finds it’s easiest to slip back into Mom mode when faced with a situation like this. Be his friend, but also make sure he’s alive the next time you come back home.

“Um...I had coffee,” Riz says, unabashed.

“That’s not food, sweetie!”

“I haven’t eaten, okay,” he admits, setting his notepad down. “I could use something.”

“Okay, I’m gonna go get something.” Sklonda sighs, stress weighing down her shoulders. She cracks open the fridge, and lo and behold, it’s empty. “Oh yeah, I gotta go shopping,” she murmurs, once again hit with the reality that she’s a mess when it comes to parenting. She has a kid who refuses to sleep because he’s obsessive over mysteries, apparently now finding legal loopholes, and lives off of coffee.

It’s upsetting to know that even making cereal is a challenge. She pours milk from her own bowl over to Riz’s, because even for a goblin his age he’s quite small; her’s will have to do with water from the sink and it’s only slightly metallic tasting. She sets it in front of him after pressing a soft kiss to his forehead, “All right, eat up, okay?”

Riz purses his lips after looking at her bowl. He doesn’t comment on it because he’s already done it enough for it not to matter. “Okay, thank you.”

As goblins, they eat ravenously. Partly due to their hunger, but also because that's how their species eat. Instinct. So Sklonda doesn’t like eating in public and she doubts Riz does either.

“Ah, all right, well I'll go-I'll find a time to go shopping and get the rest.” Sklonda looks at Riz, milk dripping from his chin. She wipes it away with a thumb. It’s hard not to worry when your only child is, well, leaving you behind. “Hey, today - first day of school, right?”

“Yup,” he says absentmindedly.

“And this Saturday, y’know, uh, umm, it's the five year anniversary, so if you wanna head over to the cemetery, we can go visit Dad? Sort of see how things are going.”

“Yeah, yeah, we can do that.” 

Riz is drawing lazy circles into the desk, round and round, and if Sklonda doesn’t pull him away he might never stop. She places a hand on his and lifts it away. She finds that looking into his eyes can help - “Does that work for you?” 

Riz stares back, then blinks. 

“Yeah…”

“We can go in the morning if you got stuff to do, ‘cause I know you probably try to make friends at school-”

“Yeah, I'm probably gonna be busy, 'cause I gotta make…” Riz trails off, then reaches into his vest pocket for a small stack of white cards. He presents them with pride. “So I figured a lotta kids would just be giving out their phone numbers on their phone, but I made business cards.”

Sklonda makes a sound that’s neither human nor goblin nor any other creature in Solace. 

“So I’ll probably be busy Saturday,” Riz finishes, then pockets them again.

“Okay,” she says dumbly. Her brain cannot formulate a response.

“Why don’t we do it in the morning?”

Sklonda takes hold of Riz’s hands again. She looks him dead in the eye. “Ah, sweetheart, yeah. Y’know, formality is great when you've tryin' to be a professional, and I know that you’ve seen me work a lot, and so that's kind of, you know, professionalism.” The ache in her heart that tells her she’s a failure of a mother comes back, full force. “But there's something to be said, you know, when I go out with the guys, I'll knock back a beer-”

“Right, right.”

“-I'll kick back a little bit. Y’know, It's okay to relax.”

The glint in Riz’s eye is beyond unsettling. “Yeah, get 'em relaxed.”

“Get who?” Sklonda asks worriedly. She has tried her best to educate and care for Riz alone these past few years. but she knows the world can be cruel. She doesn’t want him to get hurt, just because he thinks differently. “Get them relaxed?” 

“That’s how we get them to tell us the secrets, so that we can solve the mystery.”

Sklonda wants to cry, but she won’t. “Friends are for more than clues, sweetie,” she says softly. “Friends are for-there's a lot of things we use friends for. Right, so let's look at that as an opportunity to-”

“Start with the friends, then get the clues.”

The tears start welling. Her throat tastes bitter. “Okay. Well, I'm gonna-you good to get to the bus?” If she keeps listening, she will well and truly lose it. It’s selfish to let her son go because she, a mother, can’t handle his way of viewing the world but it’s too early. She’s tried. That has to be enough.

Riz grabs his briefcase - an actual briefcase - and slips on his nicer shoes. “Yeah!”

“I'm gonna try to-” for a moment her throat closes “-I'm gonna catch a little bit of sleep. Sweetheart, you're gonna do great.”

“Thank, Mom.”

“You're the best there is. I love you, have a great day at school. Tell me all about it when you get home, okay?” She forces herself to stay by the door and to give her son a kiss.

“Okay, thank you, Mom.” Riz returns the kiss with a peck to her cheek, then rushes out the door, swinging his briefcase.

Sklonda swallows and forces herself to stumble back to her bedroom. Without any wine.

* * *

A lot can change over one summer. Figaeroth Faeth was self-proclaimed ‘bubbly’ and ‘popular but like in the way where people actually like you’ last year, all pastels and high ponytails, just a sweet wood elf who liked rainbow nail polish and animals. But then, her horn started to grow in. Suddenly, she’s just Fig, Fig without a dad, Fig who likes bass guitar, Fig the aspiring rockstar.

“Sweetheart, I've been knockin' up a storm, what's goin' on? You're gonna be late; you're gonna miss the bus!” Sandralynn’s voice is muffled through the door as she slams a fist into the door.

“Oh yeah, um, about that, I'm not going,” Fig says, clearly not apologetic at all.

Sandralynn turns the knob. Privacy be damned. “God damn it. You're going to school!” 

Looking around the attic, you will find a retro-fitted bedroom with posters that are clearly new, and band tees that are also clearly new, with artificial-looking rips and tears and fades. Fig is sitting on her bed, strumming at a shiny red bass as she jots down messy notes in a notepad. “Yeah, try and tell me even one good bard who learned how to bard in school,” Fig retorts. She huffs and blows a piece of hair back. “They're gonna teach me how to play the bass guitar? No, if I want-I need real-life experience.”

“The school _is_ real-life experience, sweetie. You’re fifteen!”

Fig stares her down. Her anger is not unfounded, but only slightly more than teen melodrama. “Who’s my dad?”

“Goddamn it, I’m not-”

“Who’s my dad?”

“I can't tell you who your-your dad is Gilear, who raised you and loves you. Okay?” Sandrlynn begs. She doesn’t understand how Fig finds a stranger, a man she doesn’t know who contributed half of her DNA and nothing else, more important than the man who raised her.

Fig kicks her legs onto the bed. “That tool?” she spits childishly.

“Look, just 'cause things aren't great between your father and I right now doesn't mean that he doesn't love you, okay?”

Fig clenches her jaw and sits back up. Her eyes are full of hatred, of injustice. “Really? Because the look on his face when my horns started growing in didn't look a lot like love.” She doesn’t break eye contact, just daring Sandralynn to disagree because Gilear did, in fact, say a lot of hurtful things when Fig first started getting her horns.

Sandralynn massages her temples. “Sweetie, this attitude is a problem, all right? You gotta get it together, it's your first day at school.” It’s not that she doesn’t understand where her daughter is coming from, but this is far too much. All summer she’s been indulgent and understanding. Now that school is starting she’s losing her patience.

“You know, you're right-” Sandralynn sighs in relief “-I think I need some instruction, like maybe from a dad!”

So much for that.

Sandralynn slams a fist into the dresser. It stings. “Goddamn it! I-”

“Who is he? Just give me a name. I'll go find him myself.”

“There are reasons I can’t tell you.” Shame. The shame that she committed infidelity and allowed her daughter to believe otherwise.

Fig whispers, “Is he the Nightmare King?”

“It's not the Nightmare King.” For multiple reasons - for one, he’s not a devil.

“I think it’s the Nightmare King,” Fig insists, eyes wide with hope. Disturbingly, she finds the idea of the most dangerous necromancer, maybe fae, maybe undead, definitely extraplanar being, in the world being her father to be...cool. 

“It’s not the Nightmare King.”

“It's the Nightmare King, you don't have to say-Say it's not the Nightmare King if it's the Nightmare King.”

Sandralynn wants to scream and cry and yell all at the same time. The anger she feels? Fig doesn’t deserve that. But anything she says now can possibly lead to her only daughter, who is both impulsive and naive and jaded, to do Sol knows what. So she thinks carefully about her answer - “The Nightmare King lives...thousands of miles away from here, maybe.”

“But he also lives in our nightmares, maybe that's where you met him?”

“Sweetie...this is sensitive, and adults-”

Fig scoffs. She hates being dependent on other people. It makes feelings - unwanted feelings like abandonment and the grip of fear for her identity - so much more real, so she shakily reaches for a cigarette. The drag of smoke soothes her for a moment, before -

“Where the fuck did you get a cig-?” 

Sandralynn snatches away the clove, stomping on it with a boot. Fig can’t quite speak right now; she lights up another one. A small part of her wants her mother to see her hand shake, but the larger part of her is afraid of judgement. Though of course, Sandralynn takes that one away as well.

“God! Where-where did this come from? You were so well behaved a year ago,” she says, close to tears.

Fig wants to scream, because if anyone has a right to be upset it’s her, her, _her!_

Sandralynn leans against a wall and pushes her bangs back. “Look, okay, well-” she catches a flash of yellow disappearing into the distance “-well there goes the fucking bus, huh? There it goes! You happy?”

No, Fig isn’t. She needs to be alone right about now. “Anyway, so I think I'm just gonna sorta stay home and work on some music,” she says with fake saccharine that still manages to fool her mother. “I've got a song called _My Dad is a Demon But He's Also a Deadbeat_ , so I'll just work on that. Bye.” She flutters her fingers, just like she used to do.

“You’re going to school,” Sandralynn insists.

Fig ignores her and pretends to strum something on her guitar, so Sandralynn storms down the stairs. Then suddenly, Fig is left alone - and she realises she hates it. This attic is starting to feel less and less like her, and more and more like a stranger who tried to possess Fig. She doesn’t want this, she doesn’t-

She catches a small sticker on the corner of her bedpost. It’s a glittery star, charmed so that it can waves slowly with a big, dumb grin on its neon yellow face. A sob rises in her throat and a fond smile forms. 

No.

She shakes herself out of it and rips the sticker away, squishing its cheerful face then tossing it into a trashcan across the room. She misses horribly.

“I can’t believe I ever thought I was an elf,” she says to herself. “Elves are so lame.”

From down the stairs, Fig can hear her mother talking about her, loudly, in Elvish, and very clearly to Gilear - ‘yoghurt’ is the same in most languages.

Fig yells, “I know you’re talking about me! I can hear you say ‘Fig’!” 

When her mother ignores her, Fig can feel that rush of emotion return. But a beat later came - “It’s got nothing to do with you! Get downstairs!” Of course, her mother finds it necessary to make sure Fig hears that by coming back up. “I have to go to work, all right? Your father is coming here to pick you up and take you to school, all right, because he-”

“Oh, my real father? I'm finally gonna meet him, what a luxury! I can't wait, I'll put on my best fucking dress!” Fig jumps to her full height, horns, heeled boots, and all. Maybe, maybe, she can feel smoke curling out of her nose.

“Get dressed for school, all right, and we will talk about this,” she snaps. Sandralynn heaves for a moment, then softens her tone. “I love you, and I know this is hard right now, but we're gonna get-” Fig lights up another clove just to distract herself from the onslaught of intimacy “-you gotta put the cigarette out while I'm in the room. While I'm in the room you can't smoke.”

Angry that she still doesn’t notice the bags under her eyes, or the way her fingers shake, Fig tosses the cigarette into Sandralynn’s mug. She stares down, daring her mom to say anything.

Sandralynn decides they’re no use in being civil. “Fine,” she says. Then walks out of the room.

“Just tell me who my real dad is and I'll call this war off!”

But it isn’t about that. It wasn’t ever about that.

The only response Fig gets is the screech of Baxter, her mother’s griffin familiar, as they take off into the sky.

Fig doesn’t know how long she stands there, crying uncontrollably, rubbing up and down her arms in an attempt to self-soothe. She’s shaking, her lungs hurt, and she can’t seem to move her legs even as she sways. So she drops down to the ground, face buried in her hands. Her knees feel bruised.

Knock, knock.

Fig wants to ignore it.

Knock, knock.

She can’t even answer it if she wanted to.

Knock...knock.

She drags herself out of her stupor. It’s all autopilot at this point, so when she sees Gilear is there she blurts out the most obvious thing she can think of - “Gilear, have you been eating out of cans again?”

“What? My daughter, yes, ehm, I have been eating legumes as it were for I have found that in my new living situation over at Strongtower Luxury Apartments-”

“Wow, you really emphasized luxury.” It’s easier to be bitter to Gilear than focus on anything else, so Fig does what she does best - be a bratty teen.

“They're not the worst in the world. They're all right, but I've found that it's, you know-” Gilear sighs and sags “-yeah, I've been eating beans. Eating beans.”

“Okay.” Fig tapped her chin. “I-so I'm guessing you were sent here to try and get me to go to school, right?” 

“Well, I'm gonna give you a ride,” admits Gilear.

Fig pauses. The idea of staying alone in the house is terrifying, but having to face new people is worse. Even being locked up in her bedroom is better than the prospect of new faces. She needs to think. Fast. “Okay, let me just go use the bathroom and then I'll come,” she says with a tight grin. She is praying to whoever is listening that this plan goes through.

Gilear nods. “Okay, that sounds good.”

Fig rushes to the bathroom, breath in her throat, and does her best to cast Disguise Self. It’s a shitty job, the hair a little too curly, her nails still painted black and glossy, but it will have to do. Her reflection stares back at her and for a moment, she wonders if she can convince herself that it’s really her mother. “Fig, I'm prou-” 

The illusion shatters. The voice is wrong. Her skin crawls with embarrassment for even trying what she did.

So she chooses to walk back out and does what she does best. 

Gilear gives her a once over. “Uh...Sandralynn, what the hell? I thought you needed to go to work?” He’s uncharacteristically angry, not intimidating, but definitely a far cry from his sheepishness after the divorce - he lost a lot of bravado and kindness after the split, becoming a husk. Not rude, not mean, just pathetic.

Fig deepens her voice as much as she can. “I know. I've changed-I've changed my mind. I don't think she should go to school. She made some really compelling arguments about how bards-how bards need real-life experience so...thank you so much.” She knows it’s not great, but her father was never all that perceptive. “And also, thank you for keeping it a secret who her real dad is,” she blurts out before she can stop herself.

“Well...all right.”

If she’s already in this deep - “But between you and me, we can say the name out loud.” 

Gilear sighs. “Well, he's actually-if you wanna go talk to him about the paternity test, he's free today.”

“Yeah. Yes, I do. Can we do it in the next...hour?” Fig winces at her spell’s duration which she just remembered. 

“Sure, that’s fine.”

“Okay.” Fig’s nostrils flare as she sucks in a deep breath. “Yes,” she affirms. “Yes.” 

“Yeah, that’s no problem.” 

“Thank you. Thank you so much.” Fig doesn’t need Gilear to know why she’s so grateful all of a sudden, even if his response clearly tells her she’s going overboard. “She's upstairs so we can just go, no need to say goodbye to her,” she lies.

“Really?” Gilear’s eyes furrow as she peeks at the stairs. “No need to say goodbye to her?”

Fig panics and starts walking to the car. She cannot be here and she cannot be at school. “No, I think she's working on a song.”

“Oh.” Gilear takes out his keys. “Okay, that’s all right. I’ll talk to her later…”  
  



End file.
